


some visionary shit

by jadebloods



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Pale Dave/Karkat, Background Relationships, Bathroom Sex, Body Fluid Exchange, Finger Sucking, Interrupted Sex, M/M, Male Character of Color, Mutual Masturbation, Personal Space Violation, Tentabulges, Tickling, Trans Male Character, canon-typical ableist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cranberry juice catastrophes, machiavellian/heroic XTREME STRIDER BULLSHIT, sloppy interspecies hookups against phallic bar bathroom graffiti, and Dave pissing on everyone's parade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some visionary shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unseenminion (gendersquare)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gendersquare/gifts).



> Little red light on shootin', I'm feelin' like  
> Stanley Kubrick, this is some visionary shit  
> \- _Friedrich Trollhelm Nietzsche_
> 
> (Content warnings: Dirk is a trans guy here and initiates receiving genital penetration, so run that past your trigger filters before reading. This is tagged with alcohol because it takes place in a bar, but Dirk and Karkat are both sober.)

Karkat has been on your radar for a few months now, as something of a tomato-overripe-with-loud-grievances kind of troll who hangs out with Dave sometimes, but you've never considered approaching him on your own until tonight. It's dark and extremely loud in this shoddy little dive bar, just loud enough to drown out the more grating aspects of Karkat's voice, so now is as good of a time as ever to corner him while he's away from your extended pack of friends, who are currently sprawled over three tables in the front playing drunk Jenga. You take the initiative to slide into the barstool next to where Karkat is crouched with his elbows on the shiny wooden bartop, waiting on a glass of cranberry juice and looking extremely put out about something. His shoulders are hunched up over the neckline of his sweater, which he insists on wearing even though it has to be like nine thousand degrees in here, and his feet are tapping restlessly against the rungs of his seat. The whole thing is impossibly endearing.

For once, there's no elaborate meet cute planned out for this encounter, which is fairly unusual for you. You're gonna wing this shit, and your plans only get as far as an opening "Hey," that you have to really project in order to be heard over the music and laughing voices. He gives you a sideways glance and a grumble that you can't hear for your trouble. "What?"

"I said, nobody is sticking to the schedule!" Karkat shouts back before angrily grabbing his deep maroon beverage and taking a long sip. After a moment, he smacks his lips a few times in disgust and gives the bartender an exasperated look. "Look, asshole, the high fructose corn syrup is sitting in a film all over my nutrition pusher, don't try to fucking tell me that this is juice and not that """cocktail""" bullshit with like half a dozen enclosure talons. You know what, never mind, just give me a water." He throws down an absurdly huge tip and turns to face you, his face lit up on all its flat planes with a thin sheen of troll sweat. "Nobody is sticking to the schedule," he repeats, narrowing his eyes at you with dawning recognition. "Oh right, you. You're Strider's human relative."

It doesn't seem to be a question, so you don't address it. "What schedule?"

"Can you please tell your dipshit 'bro' that I--" he pauses to pick up the water that the bartender has just sat in front of him, and he takes a sip from it, visually relieved at having the coating of processed sugar syrup washed out of his mouth. His face relaxes into a little less of a scowl, allowing his brows to unknit and his eyes to soften a fraction of a degree, just enough to let how cute he is under all the bad attitude shine through. "That I don't want to hear about it tomorrow when he's dehydrated and spewing himself stupid because he didn't stick to the beverage schedule I spent so much time outlining this afternoon. Wait, no, who am I fucking kidding, of course I'm going to sit and listen to the whole thing like the masochistic chump I was hatched to be, because your brother is the most pathetic little codependent wiggler of a human I've ever seen. I'm not positive he knows how to knot his sneaker girdles, much less know how to stagger his soporifics and hydration to keep from spending all of tomorrow morning in a nauseated ball on the nutrition block floor. Isn't it your job to teach him that? Why am I doing your job for you?"

TT: Holy fucking shit. I know I'm interrupting here, but you are making choices that are far too questionable for how low your blood alcohol content is right now. I would be derelict in my duties if I didn't take a moment to clue you in on that little fact.  
TT: Are you seriously trying to hit on this spring-loaded squeakbeast-trap of explosive neuroses?  
TT: He might as well have a blinking billboard over his head that says 'ASK ME ABOUT MY THINLY VEILED PALE TROLL EMOTIONS ABOUT MY CLUELESS FRIENDS'.

You wish you could ignore your Auto-responder, but the dude has a point. You haven't met someone with so many obvious tells since... well, since Dave. It's no wonder that the two of them are friends, really. "Sounds to me like you elected yourself the architect of my bro's Saturday night bender--which is a noble and selfless calling, consider me suitably in awe of your pious devotion to the cause--but you made one major fucking mistake."

Karkat looks at you with distrust, as though he's certain that he's about to be made into the punchline of a joke that he should be able to predict and deflect. "Yeah? What's that?"

You tilt on your stool to lean in sideways, not enough to make Karkat flinch away instinctively, but just far enough into his personal space to make it seem conspiratorial. "You clued him in on your plan. Come on, are you new? Have you _met_ Dave? The worst move you could make is telling him you've planned anything in advance. You'd be better off just availing yourself of his wallet, buying all of his drinks for him, and then shoving the right things into his hands at the appropriate times."

"Good lord, I think I might have actually met somebody who wouldn't be in danger of becoming cullbait without my constant intervention. I'm sorry, I'm getting a bit twitterpated over here. I'm just so fucking shocked at the possibility that I might be speaking to a borderline-capable person that I don't really know what to do with myself." Karkat doesn't lean away, which is good, but his face doesn't soften any further, which is less so. You're gonna have to work hard for this, but you are absolutely up to the challenge. After all, a guy who wears his tortured psychological profile on his sweater sleeve can't be _too_ difficult to figure out. "Are you sure you're not some kind of mythical creature? Is there a button on you somewhere that prompts you to spout wisdom about getting Strider to take care of his basic human body functions?"

TT: Manhorse. Say manhorse.  
TT: This would be an excellent time to bring up your centaur fursona.

You hold your position, stretching out your elbows so that one of them brushes up on Karkat's arm. "If such a button existed, and I'm neither confirming nor denying this radical postulation of yours, it would probably be located somewhere that I couldn't expose in a bar."

Karkat groans, rubbing one of his hands down the side of his face. It had condensation on it from his glass, which was now starting to bead up in his eyelashes and the crook of one nostril. "If this is a human bulge joke, I am going to pour this cranberry """"""juice"""""" all over your lap." He mimes the enclosure talons with vigor this time, sloshing water on your forearm. "Consider yourself warned. Further jokes about your nonsensical human genitals is express and irrevocable consent to being doused with saccharine fruit sludge instead of harmless water. I think that's a fair trade for having to listen to this bullshit, wouldn't you agree?"

TT: Oh yeah, this guy definitely doth protest too much. He wants the lowdown on your package, he just isn't ready to settle in and get comfortable with his burning curiosity.  
TT: I bet it's because you look too much like Dave for comfort. He's got his mucky conciliatory feelings all up in his sudden overwhelming desire to press on your manbutton.

"Whoa," you say, wiping your arm off on your jeans. "Gettin' kinda sloppy over there, buddy. Maybe you should stick to water."

"Please. That's reckless enthusiasm for karmic revenge, not intoxication. You couldn't get my fleshy mouth bumpers anywhere near a soporific." He looks down at his water glass, thumbing at the wet dribble from his earlier gesticulations. "It's not a moral thing, okay? I'm not that kind of asshole, I know it's different for humans."

"I don't remember calling you a--"

"Shut up," Karkat interrupts. "I'm telling you a thing right now so just shut up. I know it's different for humans, but I had a friend get really messed up once and I'm about as eager to go through that again as I am to have my bulge stapled right here to the floor, along with all the other refuse and festering bacterial sludge. Just like-- Hey. Hey, hold up, what the hell do you think you're doing?" He splits off, turning to a troll who has just approached the bar in a-- whoa. Is this guy _seriously_ wearing a cape in a dive bar?

You watch with detached amusement as the interloper leans drunkenly with his forearm on Karkat's shoulder and tries to signal the bartender by snapping his fingers every time the overworked human passes by with a shaker or a bottle of gin. A shrill, condescending shout of _Garçon!_ wouldn't seem out of place on this guy's fleshy bumpers--and yeah, that's a turn of phrase that you are so going to have to revisit later--but the troll only seems to have words for Karkat. "Oh, hey Kar, I need another one of those... those..." He snaps his fingers again, thoughtfully this time, if thoughtful is a word that can really be applied to fingersnapping. "What was that drink Dave got me?"

"It was a Sweaty Hipster, and no, you are abso-fucking-lutely not going to get another one," Karkat says, ducking his shoulder out from under the intruding forearm. "Because for one thing, _he was making fun of you_ , gillflap, and for another, we are sticking to the goddamn schedule if I have to tie you to this bar stool and cram a hydration packet down your protein chute with my own grabfronds."

"Hey now, are you sure this human needs to be hearing all the filthy details of your pitch proclivities?" He leans low into Karkat's space on the opposite side, putting his arm all the way around Karkat's shoulders this time and forcing Karkat to lean further toward you in evident disgust.

"I am not _pitch_ for you, oh my _god_. Is a guy not allowed to give a shit about his friends' well-being without his most heartfelt of platonic intentions being twisted to serve someone's spadesbitey bulge-strangling fantasies? Get the fuck off of me," Karkat shouts, pushing the other troll hard across the chest and causing him to topple over into the opposite barstool.

While this is happening, you have a split second decision to make. The wildly gyrating drunken troll limbs during the altercation provide just the right amount of confusion for you to swoop in, unnoticed, and knock over the forgotten glass of cranberry juice, making it appear that Karkat had upturned it with his own elbow and caused the crimson cascade currently falling cold and wet in your lap, a shitty little waterfall over a polished wooden cliff, splashing down into the valley of your denim crotch. No longer just a nosy bystander watching the situation unfold for stolen glimpses into Karkat's psyche, you can now pass as a fully fledged casualty of this entire conversation. "You've gotta be shitting me," you mutter convincingly, stepping back from the bar and dripping sugary beverage ("beverage", with an unfathomable number of enclosure talons) down your pants leg.

TT: Going for the slimy puppetmaster's gambit with the feigned crotch-dousing, I see. Not your worst play, although now I would be remiss if I didn't point out that this angle runs a 23.94% risk of placing you squarely in the palezone with this guy.  
TT: You would have been much better off punching the caped douchelord in the mouth, but I guess that ain't really your style, huh?

You bite back the urge to roll your eyes and say something back about how the palezone isn't a thing, but that would require speaking out loud and blowing your cover. Fortunately, Karkat has just noticed the cranberry catastrophe unfolding behind him, and his shoulders, which were once hunched in aggressive deflection, now slump with dawning comprehension. "Oh my god," he says, frozen for a moment as he watches the juice soak down the front of your pants, turning them dark black from crotch to knee. "Oh my fucking god, I'm so sorry. I'm--" He turns around to his barely lucid friend, who is still collecting himself from where he fell against the other stool. "Look what you made me do, you bulgehungry son of a-- Shit. Here, let me," Karkat says lamely, grabbing some drink napkins off of the bar and ineffectually dabbing at your inseam. Normally you'd be one to savor the victory of getting his hands so close to your dick so soon in the game, but before you can really get a good internal gloat-on, the thin napkins quickly dissolve to soggy papier mâché, sticking to the denim and doing a whole bunch of fuck all to resolve the actual spill situation. "Ugh, this is making it worse," he says after a minute. "Maybe they have some towels or something--"

You put your hand on his wrist, stopping him before he can rub the napkins down to their component atoms all over your lap, since he's already more or less giving your junk a spirited but remorseful over-the-clothes spit-shine. "Dude, all you're doing is turning my crotch into an extra fun-filled piñata over here." You make a point to thumb his palm gently as you move his hand away from your leg. "A bar towel isn't gonna stem the tide, okay, this shit is gonna stain. I'll go rinse it out in the bathroom," you add, moving your hand to his shoulder as you look him briefly in the eye and then walk away, not checking to see if he's following you.

Of course he's following you.

The bathroom is tucked away in the back corner of this shitty joint, a one-stall room with a lock on the door, a busted mirror over a sink with bare pipes and a half-empty Cape Codder balanced on the lip, and a barely functional toilet that always needs the handle jiggled a few times, like it needs a little bit of foreplay before it'll commit to a full flushing. You close the door behind you but don't lock it.

TT: Wow. Setting the scene with Dirk Strider.  
TT: Is this seriously where you plan on escalating the situation to aggressive nudity?  
TT: I should caution you against removing your shoes, on the grounds of Actinobacteria, Bacteriodetes, Firmicutes, and Proteobacteria, and that's just to start off with. Should I go on?

"Noted. Now shut the fuck up," you mumble, unbuttoning your jeans and pushing them artfully over your hips as you count down in your head. (Three.) How far down is too far? (Two.) Crotch to the door, or ass to the door? (One.)

The only warning you get is a single harsh knock before suddenly the knob is turning and Karkat is pushing into the room with you, getting a nice load of your shapely rump through your boxers, because you obviously settled on ass to the door with your pants just barely off of your hips. "I see you're not up to date on Earth bathroom etiquette. Generally speaking, if you're entering a room where someone might have their dick out, you wait for permission after knocking. Doing otherwise is a pretty aggressive admission of intent," you say over your shoulder as soon as you're positive he's looking at you, sliding your jeans the rest of the way down your thighs and bending to pull them carefully over one sneaker at a time.

"Thought I already told you to shut up," he says, without any venom, after a brief but palpable hesitation and a lingering glance at your ass. You think you see his face go a little pink before he turns around to thumb the deadbolt on the door, a small concession to your insincere demands for privacy. "Sorry, that was-- I'm sorry. I shouldn't be mouthing off at you when this is all my fault. Past Karkat is a pan-fried pail-muncher, we can probably agree on that, and he should probably pay more attention to what the fuck he's doing instead of trying to insert himself into everyone's business with no regard for future consequences, especially consequences that might result in me being locked inside the world's most dilapidated and least hygienic hygiene block on this entire decrepit space rock." 

"You should give Past Karkat a break, dude. He was being salivated on by a guy in a violently plum wizard cape. I'm pretty sure that's one of those 'by any means necessary' situations." You hop on one foot a little bit for emphasis while you try to wrestle your jeans leg over your sneakers without taking them off, hoping he will get the hint.

"Here, let me--" He walks over and lets you put one hand on his shoulder for balance while you get the soggy pants the rest of the way off. "I can help. Don't argue with me, those pants look way too artfully ripped to not be very fucking expensive, so I'm doing you this kindness whether you like it or not."

You lean into his support, gripping his shoulder firmly and bending over in front of him to pull the second pant leg off. "I'm pretty chill about stripping for you, especially if it means I get free laundry out of it. You don't do fluff service, do you?" Your face is, like, inches from his crotch and he's just standing there, holy shit, this is going to be so much easier than you thought.

Except maybe not, because as soon as the pants are off and you're standing there in your skivvies and kicks, he paps your face gently, grabbing the jeans and turning around to run the cold water from the tap. "This isn't a fucking garment ablution station, there's no way for me to fluff your pants right now. Uh. Cold water for fruit juice, right? I think I read that in a magazine. _Adequate Hivekeeping_ , or something like that. Or maybe I heard it on Troll Martha Stewart, I dunno."

You resist the urge to imagine the special breed of fresh pulsating fuck that has to go down on Troll Martha Stewart's hive improvement show. "Troll channels rarely have programming that interests me, except the occasional musclebeast safari documentary on Alternian Geographic. I saw one once that had an entire episode devoted to musclebeast lactation farms. Wait, no, shit. I'm so embarrassed. That wasn't a documentary, that was a prostate milking porno I saw one time."

"Wow," Karkat bites over his shoulder, his cheeks flushing an even deeper red, which you can see from all the way across the admittedly tiny as fuck room. "Wow, I do not need to know about your mammalian slurry habits. If I wasn't so busy being apologetic for Past Karkat's social blunders right now, you would definitely be getting a hearduct full of lectures about appropriate conversations to be having when partially naked with a near stranger. Are you part-feral or something?"

TT: You've almost got him.  
TT: Time to pull out the big guns.  
TT: You know, like the one you've already spent so much time polishing alone in your bunk while fantasizing about kissing about this oblivious tool.

Once again, the Auto-responder is right. Some of the cranberry juice has soaked into the front of your boxers as well, which is actually perfect for your planned course of escalation. It only takes a few seconds for you to step quietly out of them while Karkat is busy agitating your pants in the sink, and you toss them silently over Karkat's shoulder and into the cold water. "Hey, looks like these got doused too."

"What the fuck?" he blurts out, taking a moment for his thinkpan to catch up with the new development. "Oh my god, you--" His eyes go wide as he turns around, getting a hot gaping eyeload of your junk right to the face. "Put your nookfur away, I swear to--" He turns back back and forth between you and the sink a few times as his eyebrows pull more closely together. "Christ, what the hell, there are _limits_ , okay? Learn to locate them on a navigationplane. It shouldn't be too hard, they're pretty clearly labeled as 'do not fucking go there'. On what depraved planet is this acceptable behavior." He shifts his weight from foot to foot, making like he wants to dismiss you and go back to the spin cycle, but something keeps grabbing his attention. Something between your legs, probably, because every time he turns around, he looks down and then rapidly back up. "You know. It's almost like you're doing this on purpose or something."

Almost on purpose, huh. Okay, fine, you can lead him to the point. You will march his ass right up to the point and politely request that he slurp it down with his big alien tongue, and the point in question is pretty obviously a euphemism for your dick. Your dick is very much the hard point, the crux of this entire endeavor, but you have other body parts that are point-adjacent, and maybe he should get acquainted with them, too.

Like, for example, your chest, which is smooth and dark and toned, and you're very fucking proud of it, Karkat really needs to get a load of it. Your shirt simply cannot be allowed to remain on, because it would be unconscionable to continue to deprive him of that experience. That shit needs fixing, and fast. The vodka cranberry on the ledge of the sink fits the theme of the evening, so you walk over, staring Karkat in the eyes with a well-practiced, completely deadpan expression as you pick it up and dump it on your shirt. 

"Oops," you intone.

TT: Nailed it.  
TT: Probability of completely gratuitous boning just jumped all the way up to 86.95%.

Karkat's mouth moves silently as the drink pours down your front, like he's trying and failing to find all of the colorfully necessary words to tell you exactly which ways you are completely and utterly fucked in the thinkpan. His face is so red that he can't possibly be breathing, he's probably holding his breath from the blunt force of all that dawning comprehension that's gotta be going down upstairs vis-à-vis your intentions for this bathroom break.

While you're waiting for him to speak, you pull the shirt over your head and toss it at his chest, staring defiantly at him. "God, this just doesn't stop from happening, does it? Somebody should have told me about fruit juice, dog."

There's a moment when you're not sure if he's going to kiss you or pull some kind of bladed instrument out of an invisible storage modus and lunge at you, aiming for all of your fleshy exposed parts--which are currently legion, thanks to your moderately successful dickweed's ploy with all the soiled clothes--in a strife to the death right here in this tiny, backed-up bathroom. His eyes flash, his eyebrows jumping as his expression changes from outrage to angry confusion to reluctant curiosity and then back to outrage. It's like you can literally see the cogs turning as he does the shipping math in his head.

You've solved this equation a million different ways over the past couple of weeks, but the answer is always the same. All signs point to sloppy interspecies makeouts, and while you really hadn't planned on it going down right next to a slimy toilet with three half-empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the cistern like college hipster Stonehenge, you're prepared to roll with that outcome.

He must reach the same conclusion that you do, because after a few seconds he drops the stupid t-shirt into the sink and steps into your personal space, reaching up to pull your shades off of your nose. Auto-responder goes to rest on the toilet next to the ancient ruins of the binge-drinkers of old, and you can't say you're sorry to see him go. "Jesus," Karkat finally says, quiet under the buzzing of the neon lights. "Honestly, I'm in seething wonderment right now. For a minute you actually had me believing that you're some elusive breed of genuinely intelligent human being, but really you're just an opportunistic douche. The kind of douche who ruins all of his clothes in a needlessly complicated powerquest to get at my bulge, when all you needed to do in the first place was just _ask_ for a stupid kiss." He puts his hands on your face, backing you into the wall (where someone had doodled a strikingly realistic cartoon penis with permanent marker). "Fucking malsocialized idiot," he mutters, pressing a kiss onto your mouth until your bare spine is intimately acquainted with the dick on the wall. "Nook-starved piece of--" 

You cut him off, grabbing his elbows and pulling him close against you, until you can feel his chest pushing back on yours with every breath you manage to suck down around the edges of the kiss. His hands are still wet from the sink, and the water drips down your face, off of your chin onto your chest. It's cold like the grimy wall against your back, but his sweater is warm on your front and he's making hot little huffing noises every time he takes a breath. His kisses are half teeth, which is pretty much what you expected, but he seems to know how to use them without cutting you up, catching your bottom lip in them without breaking the skin. Fucking incredible.

It's awfully unfair that you're completely naked--excepting your shoes, because like fuck are you standing on this floor without at least one layer of solid leather between your feet and the myriad bacterial strains and toxic waste--and he's covered from the neck down, so you put your hands under his sweater and make to pull it off, getting it halfway over his chest before he pulls away from the kiss to stop you. "You can't be serious," you say, looking down at yourself and back up at his eyes.

He follows your line of sight, and you can tell he's lingering on your 'nookfur' again because he opens his mouth with a few false starts before he can say anything. "I can and I am. You did that to yourself, so don't get me tangled up in your perverted public nudity spongegames."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and call it that you're well and truly entwined in the gnarly roots of this game, but fine," you say, keeping your hands under his shirt but cooling it on the peer pressure. Another kiss forces him to shut up before he can protest, and you continue your exploration under the clothes, feeling up the grubscars along his sides that dip in and out under your fingers like rib bones. That makes him sigh out a breath which is, wow, fucking adorable. Can you make him make more noises along this vein? You should definitely find out.

You check his body for other places that make him push you harder into the wall. Shockingly, the weird troll nipples do nothing for him, but there's a spot between his shoulder blades that makes him arch into you and whine a little bit, so that's where you focus your attention, sprawling open-mouthed kisses along his jaw while you tease his skin with your fingers. "What are you-- what the--" he pants into your ear, squirming like he's trying to simultaneously get away from you but also get closer, a lot closer, like you can feel something moving in his pants that might be trying to get especially close to you.

"You're ticklish, bro," you say, stroking the spot lightly with your fingertip until he starts shuddering next to you.

"What the hell is that. Is that some sadistic human torture method? Stop, oh my god." He grabs your sides and squeezes hard, gasping in short staccato breaths. You're the one against the wall here, so he could easily walk away from it and make you stop, but he doesn't. For some reason, he either doesn't think to or doesn't want to. He just lets you keep forcing strangled, anguished noises out of him while his bulge tries to escape his pants, and that makes your dick pulse hard between your legs as he moans and paws at your stomach, sounding like he's getting fucked instead of just gently caressed on the back. This should not be as fucking pornographic as it is, but holy hell, you're glad for the preview. 

Eventually he claps his hand over his mouth to stop some louder noise, like an undignified squeal or maybe a scream, something that would probably be heard over all the bar noise through the walls and prompt somebody to go investigate exactly what's taking so long in the little boys' room, so you take mercy on him and stop. 

"Shit," is all you can think to say while he catches his breath, the both of you rendered speechless.

"Why?" is all he can manage to fire back while mildly hyperventilating against your body.

"You mentioned a passing interest in my buttons earlier, so I took the initiative to find some of yours. Guess it worked, 'cause I seem to have awoken the kraken." The kraken isn't just awake. The kraken is attempting to tunnel its way out of Karkat's pants with a rock hammer just to get at you, and you can sorta ride it over the inseam if you bend your knees and tilt your hips, pushing your dick up against where it's coiling. "Do you need an annotated Google Navigationplane to find mine? I could provide that."

"Don't get your human material on my good pants," Karkat says, not very convincingly at all since he's leaning into it and moving his hands down your hips to guide the slow grind you're cultivating. "And I told you, don't play your fucking spongegames with me. If you want me to touch your nook just fucking ask me to touch your nook."

"Touch my nook," you bounce back without hesitation.

It takes him a second, as though he didn't really expect you to come out and ask for something directly. He pulls back from where he's been breathing heavily right next to your ear and looks you in the eyes, searching for something, or possibly just asking himself how this managed to get to the point where he's considering touching your genitals in a seedy public hygiene block next to a broken load gaper and a sink full of your clothes. Wait, what is the troll word for sink, anyway? Something unnecessarily esoteric like lavation ewer, but that's not quite it. It'll come to you.

It doesn't come to you, because this whole pointless brain tangent of yours quickly dissolves when Karkat finds whatever he was looking for in your shining citrine anime orbs and comes back in for another kiss, sloppy with a lot of tongue and wandering from your mouth to your throat, while pushing his fingers down through your pubic hair and over your dick. The claws are a problem, but not as big of a problem as you'd expect because apparently-- _apparently_ \--you're into that. You press your mouth closed around a moan, forcing your lips flat and tight as he moves past your dick and pushes one finger inside you, holding his hand mostly still until he figures out what the fuck he's even doing. He's pretty clearly never done this exact thing with a human before, but he has the basic mechanics down, and soon he's sliding his palm over your dick with each stroke, making it harder for you to contain your noises with nothing but grit teeth.

Karkat is every bit as loud as you are quiet, huffing large breaths against your neck and shoulder as he twists his arm between the two of you. If you can say nothing else about the guy, you can at least say that he gives incredibly enthusiastic handjobs. You can really feel the pathos rolling off of him, because he gets into it with his whole body, making small rolling movements with his torso as he fucks you open with his fingers. Plural, because he just put another one in, forcing you to bite the inside of your cheek just to keep your breathing level and steady.

Jesus Christ, he's moaning more than you are, gnawing on your shoulder and sorta drooling on it and making a big fucking mess. And man, that's really hot, the way he's completely losing himself just from touching you. You're not even doing anything, which is basically cruel, so you reach out and grab the top button on his pants. "You gonna get all Victorian on me about this too?" you ask, a little bit angry with how your voice catches and breaks in the middle.

He says something unintelligible around your shoulder muscle, then pulls back. "Just don't push them all the way down." 

You acquiesce to that request, since he's being so nice to your dick right now, and that goes a pretty long fucking way. The pants unzip easily and sit kinda naturally halfway down his thighs, so you leave them there and pull him close to you, trapping his writhing bulge between your stomachs. You get smeared with alien lube bukkake, and it isn't as gross as you might think. It's actually pretty handy, because when you put your hand on him it glides smoothly over the soft surface, making his breath hitch and hiccup as it twists in your fist.

His bulge does this thing where you don't really need to stroke it because it rolls over itself back and forth in your hand, as though some type of alien fluid or energy is flowing through it in waves like smooth muscle. It makes your knuckles bob up and down while you hold it firmly, putting squeezing pressure on it with every passing wave. That seems to be the correct move, because Karkat buries his face under your jaw and moans. It's subtly different from the tickle moans, coming from a bit deeper in his chest and with a rumbling quality that you can feel radiating into your front through his shirt. 

The more you squeeze his sponge out through his bulge, the messier his hand gets between your legs, his fingers starting to curl erratically and hitting all sorts of magical buttons inside you. You might actually be getting off more on observing his reaction than the reality of what he's doing to your junk, but that helps too, and so does imagining these wondrous curling bulge waves pressing up into you instead of his comparatively small and stationary fingers. The faster you squeeze, the more enthusiastically it rolls, starting to undulate back and forth as his breath reaches a whining pitch under your ear. He's lost it, and you're losing it, because wow, what if his bulge was doing that in your mouth or your ass instead of your hand, fuck.

"Fuck," you puff out quietly with a halted breath right before you come, almost silently, on his hand. You have to bite down hard and tuck your face against his cheek, which is damp with more of that shiny troll sweat because who the hell wears a sweater to a stuffy dive bar. The sweat sticks to your face and gets in your nose, all over your lips, so you dart your tongue out to lick it up and taste him while your body throbs on his fingers.

"God, it's--" he pants while you're still riding his hand to drag out more aftershocks, "It's like. Why is it doing that? That would _strangle_ my bulge, oh my god. I need a bucket."

"Shut up and taste this," you say softly, pulling his hand out of you and bringing it up to his face to stuff it in his mouth and hold it there. His expression hardens with initial annoyance, but then it relaxes as he really gets the flavor of your come on his tongue. He must like it, because he allows you to keep your hold on his bulge as you back him away from the wall, pushing him with your hands firmly planted at both of his ends. "No buckets here, but there's a toilet, come on."

He takes careful steps backward until his calves bump into the toilet, and you have to let go of his bulge just to hold him upright and turn him around, positioning yourself behind him and pressing your front up against his back. He grabs your hand and puts it back on his bulge, so you cram your own hand in his mouth this time, making him drool on one and ooze on the other. 

That's when a loud banging comes from the door. "What is even happening in there man, I've had like sixteen Long Islands and I gotta piss like a motherfucker," Dave calls through the cracks.

Karkat's eyes, previously lidded and drooping and rolling in agony, now shoot wide open in a panic. He tries to mumble something around your fingers and shake his head, but you make soft little shooshing noises next to his ear and squeeze his bulge faster than before. "It's okay," you whisper. "You're almost done. It's okay, just go."

A high noise rises in his throat at the same time Dave starts yelling again. "Bro, I am so serious right now, you don't even understand. If you don't let me in I'm gonna pee on your jacket. I'm gonna wait until we get home and I'm gonna pee on your fucking laptop, all over the keyboard. Good luck getting any of the keys to come unstuck ever again. Oh my god, please? I will totally, absolutely beg, if that's what gets your maladjusted rocks off."

"Go relieve yourself in a bush, dude, I'm having an ablutions horrorterror nightmare situation in here," you call back, working Karkat more rapidly as he gets closer. You can tell that he's this close to spilling because his chest is heaving and his head is just kind of lolling loosely back against your shoulder as his teeth rip up your fingers. You're pretty sure he's not even doing that consciously, so you grit your teeth and bear it. He's so close. You can handle it. "Come on, come on," you whisper again, low next to his ear.

He reaches one hand down between his own legs, and you can only assume that he's fingering his nook, because after a few seconds his knees sag and his body starts shaking. You pull your fingers out of his mouth and clamp your hand over his lips, holding in the moan that shudders through him as his slurry spurts loudly into the water. His aim is fucking shit, like not even close. There's cherry red slushie all over the seat by the time he finishes, but he manages to get at least most of it into the bowl before collapsing against you to catch his breath.

"Man, it's too bad that toilet doesn't flush," you say as soon as he can support his own body weight again.

"Are you serious?" he snaps, pausing in the middle of pulling his pants up and buttoning his fly. "You're fucking serious right now, holy shit. That's. There's no way to hide it, is there."

"Nope," you reply, striding over to the sink to pull your soaked boxers out of the now ice cold water. Once you have them on, they cling to your legs and drip right into your sneakers, giving you goosebumps and making you shiver. This is gonna be a fun conversation and a fun walk home. "I'm opening the door, okay?"

Karkat doesn't really answer, he just hides in the corner with his back to the door wrestling with his zipper and looking like he wants to fade into the tile, or maybe like he's considering busting through the frosted glass window as a more desirable escape plan than going through any doors.

When you open the door, the first thing Dave does is double-take at your drenched, mostly naked self. "What happened? Actually, nope, don't care, gotta piss." He pushes past you and makes for the toilet, stopping in his tracks when he sees Karkat and the Maraschino Syrup Armageddon. "What the _fuck_ happened here? I can't piss in this! No, don't. Don't tell me. A thing very definitely happened here, and whatever it is, it's a thing I am very much better off not knowing."

You shrug. "Suit yourself. I told you to pee in the bushes, bro." 

Karkat has apparently had enough of literally everything. Karkat has had his fill of Strider bullshit for the evening and is very fucking sated, thank you very much, that much is clear from the expression on his face as he storms over to the door without saying a word to either of you. It's an expression of combined exasperation and sexual satisfaction and complete and utter horror at the situations he manages to get himself into. It looks good on him.

"I don't even get your number?" you call after him, dragging your soggy pants from the sink and trying to wring them out.

"Give your god awful relative my number," Karkat shouts at Dave as he walks past the two of you, but he pauses at the door and adds, "But neither of you are allowed to call me when you crawl out of the 'cupe tomorrow hungover or frostbitten, because I absolutely do not want to fucking hear it. Not even a little bit," before slamming the door shut behind him.

You hand your pants to Dave, who is giving you a pleading what the hell? look, so you can wring out your shirt too and put it on, momentarily admiring how the wet cotton hugs your chest in the mirror. He takes the pants wordlessly and stares at them like they might try to attack him with surprise hidden puppet parts stuffed down the leg, or maybe with a handful of throwing stars lying in wait in one of the pockets. A small, choked, "What?" is all he can manage to say.

"Come on, let's go home. You have a piss date with my keyboard and I need some dry clothes." You rescue your shades from Beerhenge and clap your hand on Dave's back, steering him through the bathroom door and idly wondering how much your friends at the front of the bar have already figured out.

**Author's Note:**

> A [Rarepairswap](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HSRarepairSwap) fill for gendersquare, because apparently this is his OTP or something. Possibly. I'm not sure how I got that impression.
> 
> Shoutout to negativecosine and stridonut for generally being awesome, but also specifically for helping me out with this.
> 
> For the prompt: _I'd be particularly happy to see them bouncing between blackrom and pale, as their similarities (haunted by past selves in a sense [AR; past/future Karkat in memos]; outwardly defensive but really care about their friends; kind of desperate in past flushed relationships; self-loathing; leadership roles) make them both empathize strongly with each other and hate what they see in each other._


End file.
